


A Celebration of Supernatural Ladies

by astrotxt



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Coda, F/F, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-14
Updated: 2014-09-14
Packaged: 2018-02-17 08:17:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 8,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2302853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrotxt/pseuds/astrotxt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of the fics I wrote for the 30 days of Supernatural Women challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Favourite non-human character: Anael

Discordant shards carve their way through you with their shrieking, and all that pours out is light. You do not deserve blood, rich and red and rushed. You do not deserve peace, no. A hundred thousand mirrors reflect your poetic mess of a form, sliced to pieces and burned up from bursting through countless sound barriers. You do not have hands, eyes, veins, teeth, nipples, stomach lining, toenails, not anymore. You are stripped to servitude and obsidian duty.

You grasp at strands of galaxies, old friends that turn their backs. Well, not backs, it’s a little more complicated when they have eighteen heads, some of which share something resembling a skull. You miss having bones that break. You would pick hairline fractures along your legs than planet-sized fissures up and down your very being.

Remembering you were an angel is a lot like giving birth to yourself; it’s bloody and confusing and you’re already within a callous world to which you’re dragged into, howling to empty firmaments.

You remember, or perhaps you distract yourself with the memory. Bright red hair dye. Chemicals to permeate your blonde locks, your friends (you had friends before Enochian orders scrabbled at your brainstem all day and all night) encouraging you and swapping light-hearted barbs and bone-deep secrets. You can feel the splatter of battle on your cheek now alongside their musical laughter, and the sound resonates so much stronger. This was your choice.

Animal cries on an abstract plain now, transported with mellifluous death surrounding you and your garrison. You are proud. You do not have hair. You lead endless beings to the slaughter because an absent father tells others to tell you that it is so, that is must be, that you have no choice. You aren’t permitted private dreams for fear that He may be watching, but you catch yourself wondering what being able to taste things would be like, to know the sum of parts rather than innately knowing every molecule intimately.

You circle Earth’s sun a few times, wishing you could feel warmth. You watch humanity grow from mud-stacked towers to endless war and disease to picking themselves apart to try and mature. You watch billions of stories, no one entirely the same as the one preceding it. You witness love and murder and apathy and boredom and inspiration and song and chocolate cake, unfolding simultaneously, all over such a tiny space. You watch, unable to touch.

You’ve never loved anything more than your father before.

During another blood-soaked crusade, your dearest brothers all around you, some obliterated beyond repair among the fray, some clamouring with dirtied blades, you walk away. You take yourself to the furthest galaxy, one which humans have dubbed NGC 5866. From where you approach, it looks like a suspended sword. You decide this is appropriate for the act you are about to commit. You take your shining blade, and it glints as if it would be cold, not that you would know. You attempt to plunge it into your molten core, but it proves difficult. You believe that humanity might have died out by the time your melting grace starts to drip through your claws. With the little energy it still has, your loyal essence drags you though the universe, splintering you through nebulae to reach Earth. You corrode and you are euphoric with the speed at which you break apart.

You don’t care where you land, just as long as you do. You know you were loved once, and to die for sensation is a noble enough retirement from eons of bloodshed.

But it is all for naught.

Warm hands have plucked you apart with a lingering touch and her tongue nearly chokes on the word “angel”. You do not have a tongue any longer, it is not yours.

You excuse yourself, moving the body you’ve lived in and loved for what now feels like a blink of an eye. You sit on an old drunk’s toilet in Sioux Falls and tears burn their way down your cheeks.

Anna Milton is dead.

You are Anael. And this knowledge hurts more than oblivion ever could.


	2. Favourite ally character: Pamela Barnes

Pamela gently traced over the space of her lower back, inspecting the tattoo carefully in the mirror. “Jesse Forever”, she’d asserted to the guy at the parlour last Tuesday. He’d smirked and she’d not given a lick of care as to how cliché it was. Jesse was her forever guy, and that was ok. Better than ok. Especially since that day was their two year anniversary. 

 

She knew he had something special planned, because he was an utter sap, and it was  _exactly_  his M.O. He’d checked almost feverishly as he’d left earlier that morning,

 

“So I’ll meet you at home at 7pm, ok honey?” 

 

“Sure thing babe.” she’d grunted in the mauve hour. 

 

He’d kissed her softly, and when she pulled away, his eyes were closed. Nerd. “Heh. Ok. Um. Ok, work.” he breathed.

 

“You fight those fires, ya big hero you.” she slapped his ass lightly as he got up. “Mmm, keep that safe, ok babe?”

 

“Anyone would think you only want me for my body.”

 

“They wouldn’t be too far off the mark.” she snorted, and as his smile brightened up the room, she couldn’t help melting into the rumpled sheets. “That and the whole ‘being kinda in love with you’ thing, but that’s pretty minor in comparison.” she waved away. 

 

“Don’t forget scandalising the ladies in the mayor’s office. Oh!” he gasped in a mocking imitation of her mother (oh yeah, she could tell), “Pamela! You’re dating one of those…  _exotic_ boys.” His voice had taken on a salacious tone, “How big is his- “ but he’d been interrupted by a pillow flying into his face.

 

“Alright alright mister, get out and save lives or whatever it is you do.” she’d laughed as he’d pressed one last kiss to her forehead. 

 

“Love you!” he shouted as he ran out.

 

She’d sighed, pressing a hand to her forehead where he’d kissed her, a sudden piercing pain seizing through her skull.

She’d necked a couple painkillers and pegged it to waking up too early. 

 

***

 

“A tramp stamp, Pam? Really?” Karma giggled, her long red nails tickling the goose-bumped skin over her new ink. “Wow. He’s either gonna run a mile or be even  _more_ into you, which I don’t think is possible, so I’m bettin’ on the former.”

 

“You’re the worst sister-in-law ever.” Pamela groaned, at which point Jesse’s sister started to squeal.

 

“HE FINALLY POPPED THE QUESTION?” she asked, probably perforating a few neighbouring eardrums. 

 

“No, no, but he’s picking me up tonight, and you know how he is.” 

 

“The biggest loser in the universe?” she deadpanned, “Yeah. Well, either way, you don’t have to be a psychic to figure it out. He’s been into you since high school, and he’ll probably still be into you when your tits sag to the ground.” 

 

“Amen to that.” she clinked their iced tea glasses together. 

 

Karma sighed, worrying her lips in her teeth, “Pam, what is even happening?” she asked wistfully, “I’m moving out of this fuckin’ hick-town, you’re getting married to my big brother, we’re growing the hell up. It’s terrifying.”

 

“Gotta just roll with it, gorgeous.” she murmured into her drink. “Universe knows what its doin’.”

 

Karma rolled her eyes, “Ok, Miss Zen, how are those headaches the friggin’ universe has bestowed upon ya?” When Pam just waved her away, she moaned, “C’mon Pam, you need to get that shit sorted, I can’t lose my best friend to the crazies or some next brain tumour, uh-uh.” 

 

“It’s fine, Kay, really.” she’d scratched out lightly, but even as she said it her temples throbbed.

 

“You say that.” she sighed, clearly choosing to drop it as she raised her glass. “To getting legally bound to one another.”

 

Pam clinked her glass with a wrinkle of her nose, “We were bound to do it sometime, Jesse’s just a perk.” she sniggered.

 

***

 

The beat-up jeep scrubbed over gravel as moonlight washed over the river, as if watching it wind through the town. Jesse parked right in front and parked. Pam had had to take two more tylenol as they’d approached, her head hammering with white noise. As the pain faded a little she cracked her eyes open to see her boyfriend looking at her incredibly concerned, his dark eyes wide and worried. She leaned over and kissed him, darting her tongue into his mouth, feeling him moan around her. His hands wrapped around her back as she came up to straddle him in his seat (thank god for oversized gas-guzzlers) and deepened the kiss. His thumbs rubbed tiny circles into the dimples just above her ass and the pain seared through her head again. She pulled away gently, panting to cover the whine she was letting out. 

 

“Shit.” he breathed, curling his fingers around her hips. “Honey, are you alright?”

 

“Yeah, course I am. I’m just,” she inhaled jaggedly, “happy. With you.”

 

He didn’t look convinced, and the scrabbling voices died down in her head. “Jesse, c’mon. I’m fine.” she rocked carefully on top of him. “Why’d you bring me out here?”

 

He laughed, “You don’t remember?” He carefully dismantled her from his lap and placed her on her seat beside him. She looked around, at the foxgloves growing wild at the corners where the woods started, the trees gnarled and roots bursting and curling through the river bank. 

 

“Oh wow.” she breathed out, smiling widely, “Is this where we’d come to make out in high school?”

 

“Yuh-huh.” he grinned at her, “This is also where you uh, took my virginity.” he shuffled uncomfortably. 

 

“You told me you’d done it before, what?” she cried out, slapping his shoulder. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

 

“I didn’t want you to think I was a loser.”

 

“With an ass like yours?” she drawled, “I wouldn’t’a cared a lick.” she touched her tongue to her molar and wiggled her eyebrows as Jesse huffed a little laugh. 

 

“I love you Pamela Barnes.” he declared in an exaggerated Louisiana accent, clutching his heart, so to speak.

 

She giggled, “Yeah, somehow I got that.”

 

“And… And I wanna spend the rest of my life with you.” he continued softly. He pulled out a small box and her heart thumped in time with the pain in her head, but she was too happy to notice either. He cracked it open and inside was a small gold ring inlaid with emeralds. “Would you like to, um, marry me?”

 

“Uh, hell yeah!” she cried out, surging across the seats to land sloppy kisses all over his face, stroking his fuzzy hair, tracing every contour. He laughed and she kissed and the car was warm.

 

That was when the screams started.

 

Jesse’s head whipped around and she could tell he’d gone into service and protect mode, and he slid his thumb absentmindedly over her cheekbone and whispered, “Pam, I’m just gonna check it out, just stay here ok?” he took another look at her and said, “Please. Sweetheart. Stay  _here_ no matter what.” His eyes darted all over her face, terrified, until she nodded slowly. He got out of the car, locking it behind him and pulled a crowbar out of the back. 

He edged towards the bank and the voices built and built inside her head until they were all, after nineteen years, saying something in chorus. 

  
 _So it will be_.

She shook the car handles with dread, desperately trying to get out of the car. She could see him still approaching the bank and she screamed, screamed like her lungs were the size of the moon, screamed her throat bloody and raw, but he couldn’t hear her. A woman in a scuba suit emerged from the river, and the voices kept chanting and Pam kept screaming. 

The woman in the scuba suit’s arms elongated until they were huge snake-like things, hovering in the air before they curled around Jesse’s arms and legs, and Pam was slamming her boots against the windscreen, the windows, and the spidered cracks appeared. She kept kicking and screaming and kicking her knees buckling as the windows juddered to give way, but it was too late, it was too late. He was gone. The water thrashed in the middle of the river and stilled, the moon still silently watching. 

The voices hummed.

***

 

Eight days. Eight days, fourteen hours, about twelve minutes later, Pam met Bobby Singer. She’d gone out to the river again, yellow tape weathered and shredding. Half of her needed answers, half of her wanted to follow wherever Jesse had gone. It was a small part, but she wasn’t gonna lie that it wasn’t there. Karma hadn’t said a single word to anyone since she was told. She’d held Pamela tightly, kissing her cheek as Pam had wound her tight curls around her finger, like they were thirteen and Karma’s mom had just died all over again. Karma had been surrounded by red and black tendrils that Pam knew only she could see, and she watched, hollowed out, as Karma went back inside her house. Pam knew when her best friend needed to be alone, but she really wished she didn’t. 

 

Everything rubbed differently. The bed smelled of him still. That sickly raspberry scrub he loved to use, there were still three bottles of it under the sink. The stew he’d made two nights before he- it was still in the huge orange pot he cooked it in. It was still there as she walked to the river. It started to smell, and she didn’t care. 

 

She walked to the edge and the woman in the scuba suit found her. Her arms started to grow and Pam asked questions to ears that couldn’t hear her, “Where is he?”

 

An iron bar slashed through the woman with a fiery scream and a middle-aged man in a beat-up trucker’s cap dragged her out of the way. 

 

“Missy, you gotta get goin’ now, ok?” he’d shouted gruffly, waving her back. 

 

She’d felt the voices rise like a wave and a sound like a wine-glass being circled emanated from just right of the guy. “There!” she yelled, and the woman in the scuba suit lashed out. The iron bar clattered to the ground, and Pam surged to pick it up and broke it right through her. As she did, she noticed a pair of goggles embedded into the bank, identical to the ones the woman was wearing, if a little more gross and covered in algae. The guy watched her pick it up and he grabbed it from her hands, throwing it to the ground and sluicing gas all over it, before striking a book of matches and throwing it down, the woman in the scuba suit burning up into the cold night. 

 

Pam wailed, “I needed to ask her something, you fuckin’ meddling piece of shit!” she hammered her fists against his chest, feeling him thud dully underneath them. 

 

He sighed, “She ain’t gon’ tell ya diddly squat, ghosts don’t talk back.”

 

She gulped, “Is that what he is now?” and her fucking lip quivered, “Is he a ghost?”

 

“No,” he soothed carefully. “He’s not.” He held his hand out, grubby and smelling of petrol, “Name’s Bobby Singer.”

 

***

 

She left town the next day, a few records and some clothes thrown into a suitcase, dumping a couple of wicker chairs into the back of the jeep. She drove north, something telling her maybe she should follow Bobby, something else telling her she should stay well away from him. She knew she had to help people, though. The voices had become a lot clearer since that night. After a few ominous warnings, after a while they had become a lot more conversational. They were the dead, apparently. There was stock in that, she could help people who needed to say goodbye. She could certainly sympathise. She listened every day, keeping her mind strong and straining to hear if Jesse was on the line.

 

He never was. She didn’t know whether that comforted her or not. 

 

She touched the small of her back every so often, smirking morbidly whenever the thought occurred to her.

 

_Well, it wasn’t forever._


	3. Favourite older character: Missouri Mosely

“Larry?” she could hear her own voice shaking, distressed as all hell. “Larry, can you c’mere?”

 

“Missy, whatchu hollerin’ bout now?” her mom yelled from the living room, bottle of hooch dangling loosely in her fingertips.

 

Larry rushed through to her bedroom where his eyes widened at the glass of water she was holding, shuddering its contents over the rim. “Leave it Momma, I got it.” he said quietly. 

 

The red in her vision ebbed away slightly at the way Larry placated her mother, but the noise, the  _whispers_ , they didn’t let up for a moment. The aggression stagnated in the air to the point where she could see it. She whined and grasped at her head, if only the scraping fingers of intrusive words would let up for a moment-

 

“Hey, y’know we gotta keep hushed?” Larry stroked a thumb across her cheekbone. His tone was quiet and playful, but his thoughts were screaming with worry. He’d practically raised her after all, he was more her caretaker than her big brother. 

 

“I know, I know, it’s just- I can’t- hear anything.” she whispered through wracked sobs, “It feels like my eardrums’re bursting with the- the- what?”

 

“What?” he whispered, the pain it carried crashed in the small room, deafening with the way choruses tripped over themselves screaming  _I should take her to the hospital._  


 

She groaned, “No, no no, no… You can’t take me to the hospital Larry, you  _know_ what they do there!” she implored, and it sounded like an echo in an unbearably large room. 

 

“I didn’t say anything!” he protested, the edge of it jutting out. 

 

“I can’t go there!” she cried out, and all that did was prompt the red seeping from the living room again. Momma was gettin’ frustrated with the racket. Real frustrated. 

 

“Missy…” Larry tried again, gentler, a powder blue that was stifling rather than calming, mixing too confusedly with the red, bruising everything in their little room. 

 

“Larry get offa me, I gotta- gotta- god _damn Momma would you stop thinkin’ so loud?!_ ” she snapped, and, of course, that only made the red richer. It washed into her room in the wake of her mother, the smell coppery with resentment. 

 

She loomed over her, bottle swinging threateningly now, practically searching out a surface to break on. “What the hell’d you say to me, little girl?” her voice was an atomic bomb with cotton in its mouth.

 

“Nothin’, Momma, she said nothin’.” Larry explained, watching how Missouri’s hands reaching for steadiness, but instead being wrenched up in a vice-grip. Her wrists were sure to bruise as purple as her mother’s aura.  

 

“I don’t. Little Missy openin’ her big mouth to disrespect those that feed her, those that clothe her?” her voice was calm, but all the colours roiled around her, tendrils biting up around them all like snakes. “Stay in your room. No supper tonight.” she decided. 

 

“Momma, she probably just hungry- “ Larry started, but she turned to him, and the tendrils grew, curling around her brother’s throat. Missouri was powerless to stop it, the noise cascading like hail. 

 

“You wanna go hungry wit’ your sister? Go ahead.” Her voice slurred with untempered ferocity, hissing, “I am the breadwinner in this house, I am the one that keeps this precious roof over y’alls’ heads and this is the thanks I get?” She raised her hand and Larry flinched sharply, streaks of black inking through the air and obscuring her vision. He shook as Momma said, still soft, still quiet as poison, “What I say? Leave her.”

 

“I, I, y-yes, sorry Momma.” he stammered, standing to the side, waiting, watching his sister. Missouri could taste his shame, and she wanted nothing more than to hug him close and tell him he nothing to be ashamed of. 

 

Momma darted over and tugged on her hair, her headache flaring with the intent to slap her mother’s hand away, to fight back, “You think on, girl.” she said, so so soft once again, only just wobbling as she left. Larry was watching her and as soon as she was settled into a daze on the couch again, he launched over to the bed and held Missouri, clutching the back of her nightie desperately. She could neither see or hear him crying, but she could feel his heart clench as if it were her own within her chest.

 

He stayed with her, stroking her hair and whispering about what they’d do when he got a job, a really good one, one that’d get ‘em far away from there. Missouri knew better than to actually believe him. Change was in the air, but it was only 1962. He had about as much chance to get a good enough job to get them out of there as she did marrying Bill Haley. That didn’t stop her from nodding to every word he said. 

 

Because they  _would_  get out of there, that was something she was certain of. Maybe by the skin of her teeth, maybe without a dime to their name, but she’d never let her or her brother rot here. She wouldn’t let them drown in their mother’s rage. She couldn’t. 


	4. Favourite character introduction: Ruby 1.0

Shit, it was cold. Contrary to popular belief, demons did experience sensation, not that any hunter would give a damn.  _Especially_ not the Winchesters. 

 

She’d been waiting for friggin’ months, hanging back on the sidelines for an in, something big enough to… well, introduce herself. Who better to demonstrate her awesome skills on than the original Deadly Seven? 

 

As she walked up to the house, she could hear the fighting which was going on inside, and it was a relief to be walking into a bloodbath sometimes. Just the pure escalated fury that pumped through the air was enough to get off on. But first things first, bailing Sammykins out of his little jam. Hammer, meet Ruby.

 

The plan was pretty simple, as plans go anyway. The thought of fighting against the very people that she was secretly fighting for- well it should’ve been a clusterfuck of emotions for even some of the most hard-hearted demons. Ruby knew, though, she knew why she’d been chosen. She was the best, God’s honest truth. Or, whatever.

 

She practically slid past Dean, grunting with effort. His soul had been in Lilith’s claws for, what, four months? It was perfect. 

 

Walking into the room where Pride and the other two goons were, running his mouth about the boy king act II that never got to be in play (for now anyway), she felt her fingers flex deliciously around her knife. Her soul used to twist when Alastair had found it; must’ve been centuries ago now. Knife of the Kurds. Her mother’s knife. She’d always told her to stay away from the witchdoctors that came through. Her soul no longer twisted when she flicked her thumb over the hilt. Her soul was misshapen now, maelstrom of darkness. That’s what it said on the business cards, anyhow. 

 

The blade glided through the air and sliced with such perfect ease through flesh and bone, like it belonged in the soak of blood. She could relate. She dispatched another like it was nothing. It  _was_ nothing. She was tunnel-vision-girl. All there was was the plan. She had no loyalty to anyone but Mister Big-shot. 

 

She took a right-hook to the jaw (dammit mind the paintwork) and swung ‘round and dealt with the fucker. Sam helped her dispatch Pride, gaping and gasping like a goddamn amateur while she shoved the knife through that prick’s jaw. Urgh, she’d never liked him. Posturing was  _so_  1300’s.

 

 Of course Sam did his best impression of catfish outta water.

 

“Who the hell are you?”

 

“I’m the girl that just saved your ass.”

 

“Well I just saved yours too.” Pathetic. Winchesters clearly always needed the last word. 

 

She couldn’t hold back a chuckle. “See you around Sam.” 

 

She smiled and got the hell outta dodge.

 

Until next time, Sammy. 


	5. Character with the most wasted potential: Eve

She has gone by many names, despite not having graced earth with an appearance for ten thousand years. ʼAṯirat. Rabat Chawat Elat. Mother Goddess. Lady of the Serpent. Echidna. Eve. But to us? She is mother.

_And oh, is she pissed._

And can she not be completely justified in her anger? Her children are killed, tortured, yes, but chaos breeds chaos. That is life and that is balance. It is when that delicate scale is tipped, that beings like mother dearest must step up to the plate, as it were, protect her own. Not just because of some matriarchal thrum, no. That little moniker is bred purely for gendered empathy, a courtesy to those who assume they could possibly understand an entity older than God. You truly believe that such a timeless being would ascribe something as arbitrary and asinine as biology to it for anything other than show? Mother is elegant. But of course, that’s where her boundless genius lies.

Funny, the name she went by when she finally ascended, though. Eve. Very telling. In a time where women are reduced to simplicities at best and scapegoated for all humanity’s woes at worst, she went by the Original Sinner’s name. The one that bit the apple and doomed you all. Funny, how she required a symbol of purity to walk around in, as if her intent were to go by underestimated while she saved her children, while she wandered and left destruction in humanity’s eyes, but creation in hers. That she sees rebirth where you feel agony, that she sees power incarnate where you see an object to be undermined as her vessel, that she sees death and mutation where you feel a press of lips. Funny, how perception works. 

And you call  _us_  monsters.

So you will take her merciful genesis disguised as genocide and you will choke on it happily, oh ye vermin. Because there’s a reason she’s feared and revered in every language under the sun that possesses a semblance of brain power. Although as humans you’re limited enough on that front.

She is a barely contained storm and you  _will_  suffer under her watchful eye, forever and always.

Amen


	6. Character you most relate to: Charlie Bradbury

It was straightforward, her system of changing her name all the time. Sure, a system would make it a little easier to track her down, but c’mon, like anyone was looking for a twelve-year-old who couldn’t even hack a friggin’ sleepover for longer than a friggin’ night. 

 

She’s 14 and her name is Annie Tolkein. Annie hacks into an environmental government facility and finds that their “out-sourcing programme” is made up entirely of sweat-shop kids in cramped spaces and dank conditions. She exposes them overnight, only leaving a single message: “don’t mess with the Queen.” She meets a girl called Melinda. Melinda has soft black hair and a strict mom, so when she finds their fingers interlaced while watching Deep Space Nine re-runs she’s chucked out of the house immediately. 

 

She’s 17 and she’s Susan Asimov. She’s been checking on her mom almost every hour for the last two weeks when they said her condition seemed to be taking an up-turn. The nurses keep looking at her strangely. Maybe it’s the blue hair. Her mom doesn’t wake up. She doesn’t come back for three months. 

 

She’s 20 and she’s Christine K. Le Guin. She falls in love for the first time. Her name is Sandra and she smells like roses and she makes Christine laugh. A lot. So much that Sandra’s boyfriend comes up and sees what the commotion is about. Hi. Wondered if you guys wanted anything from the store? Nah we’re good. Love ya babe. A kiss. Kissing those lips because straight girls exist for some reason. She tries to dig up dirt on Chas Childs, but he’s clean except for doling out the errant wedgie or two in high school. Two weeks later she tries to kiss Sandra, and beautiful Sandra smelling of roses lets her. She laughs and Christine laughs, right up until poisonous words spill out of that perfect mouth; “I mean that’s what college is for, right? Experimenting!” She gives her a small smile but once she’s back in her dorm she starts to pack her things, shoving t-shirts and her discs right into a duffel. She doesn’t need any of it, but it feels more final this way. She doesn’t say goodbye.

 

She’s 21 and she’s Wendy Clarke. She goes to Comic Con alone, but flirts with the girl tattooing slave!Leia straddling a 20-sided die onto her right hip. The girl has short pink hair and she calls herself Lavender. She tastes like apple juice and vodka (or maybe that’s leftover from that afternoon’s drinking). Wendy wakes up at three in the morning to throw up. Lavender leaves soon after.

 

She’s 23 and she’s Vicky McCaffrey. She’s approached by a Google rep that wants her to come in for interview. She’s too busy flagging misogynistic douches online and beating their asses six ways to Sunday; Google will call again, obviously. She has never had a girlfriend for longer than a blissful weekend or two. She visits her dad’s grave every time she’s in town. She’s always focused on the positive, but one day she breaks down and cries for how tired she is. She misses her mom and she misses her dad and she misses her name. She can barely remember the nickname he used to give her. She leaves the flowers there and it starts to rain. 

 

She’s 26 and she’s Charlie Bradbury. She gets on a bus, her eyes widened to the horrors of the world and she plans. She plans what she’ll do next, arm in sling and job on fire. She passes Topeka and she thinks she sees her dad on his way to work. Her heart lurches but she doesn’t cry. Why? Because ghosts are real and that’s ok. 

 

She’s 28 and she’s Carrie Heinlein. She’s Queen of Moondor, and she’s stuck in some boring IT job. The name doesn’t fit and it itches her neck like an over-starched shirt. She’s cavalier until two familiar faces show, a little more worn than she remembered. Strange that when those two are around, more people end up dead, but life feels more technicoloured. She leaves her job three weeks later and sheds the name like an ill-fitting skin. 

 

She’s 29 and she’s Red, Charlie “Red” Middleton. She’s alongside a beautiful, terrifying woman, fighting for justice in a fairytale world. Fantasy is no longer her escapism, it’s her reality, her true destiny. As she slides cold steel into unfeeling creatures, she finds home in the guts of her enemies and a wide-eyed look from her companion. 


	7. Character you most aspire to be like: Jody Mills

Jody walked through the door and the entire house smelled, gosh, so delicious. Sean always made Sunday lunch a friggin’ religious experience, but of course that’s why she married him. Smelt like, mmm, roast chicken with a ton of herbs and spices that made it exciting enough, plus green beans and butter. Her favourite. She’d been trawling through a huge pile of work that morning (yes, on a Sunday, don’t nag me, hun, got a town to look out for, don’I?), and coming home to her gourmet chef husband and menace of a kid? Best reward she could ever get. Right on cue, Owen slid down the stairs on his butt and started to run into the dining room. Before he broke his neck, she grabbed him by the scruff of it and pulled him back, gently. 

 

“Hey trouble, not gonna say hi to your mom, huh?” she sighed over dramatically, dropping her bag off on the side table. 

 

He grinned toothily and ran into a hug as she crouched to welcome him, burying his face in her neck, “Hi Mommy.”

 

“Hi sweetheart.” she breathed, her face pulling into a matching grin, kissing the top of his head. He went to run off again, but she cleared her throat. He turned, guilty look all over his face.

 

“You washed up?” she said, anticipating the tentative lie.

 

Sure enough- “Ye-e-e-s…” he eked out, toeing the floor and not meeting her eyes. She grinned, but knew she had to be in ‘good example’ mode. 

 

“No, you haven’t, go wash your hands!” she insisted, unable to keep a giggle from escaping.

 

“But  _mo-o-o-o-o-m!_ ” he whined, sliding his feet behind him like a tiny little bull, ready to charge, and sure enough, he dove straight into her hip.

 

She put her hands on her hips.  _Time to break out the mom voice._ “Owen!”

 

He sighed, clompin’ up the steps again, and she waited until she heard the faucet run and-

 

-and it was seven years later and her baby was dead twice over and her husband was dead and she was making spaghetti and sloppy meatballs for Sunday lunch. Which was at five in the afternoon because Alex hadn’t gotten up. And she’d been held up the station that morning. Seemed some things never changed. 

 

Alex trundled in, still wiping sleep from her eyes but sniffing contentedly at the meatballs cooking, slumping into her chair. 

 

“Alex?” she said without turning from the pan, stirring to get a thicker sauce.

 

She heard Alex snort, in a mockery of her tone, “Jody?”

 

“You wanna help set the table, hun?” she said, snarky even to her own ears. 

 

Alex groaned, but she managed to rouse herself and pull out various cutlery outta the drawers while Jody was busy tasting the sauce. Alex came up from her right (gotta get a bell for her or  _somethin’_ ) and sniffed it, furrowing her brow. 

 

“Lemme have a try.” she said, picking the wooden spoon out of her hand and touching the tip of her tongue to test the temperature. 

 

Jody waved with an unbidden chuckle as she’d just gone ahead and done it anyway. “Go on, then.” Alex smirked and blew on it, before sticking it into her mouth and letting out an approving noise. 

 

“Mmm, this is delicious, mom.” she said softly, her eyes shut, the simple word slamming Jody right in the gut, somewhere she didn’t realise anything could get to anymore. Alex’s eyes snapped open as soon as she’d realised what she’d said. And she gave the spoon back, backing away and leaning over the table, whispering over and over, “Shit, shit, I’m, shit, I’m sorry, we didn’t- ” 

 

“Glad you like it, sweetheart.” Jody interrupted, surprising the both of them. “You wanna finish setting up the table?” Alex looked like she was on the verge of something big, but she wasn’t sure what it was, so she just nodded and carefully placed knives and forks by their placements. They carried on the rest of the evening without another mention of it.

 

That night Jody cried (night time was best for that kinda thing) but these were tears of relief, tearing themselves from her in wracks of once-insurmountable weights lifted and true closure. Despite the horror of the world, as she’d always suspected, there was always hope. 


	8. Favourite heterosexual ship: Tamara/Isaac

They’d spotted the dark cloud of demons swarm over several states a couple of months back. The network had been kept on red alert as soon as it happened, but- nothing. A big hoo-ha for nothing. Then they’d gotten that call about a poor family having simply sat down and let themselves die. Tamara’s stomach was iron after so many years, but Isaac was a little shaken when they got back to their digs. 

“Sweetheart? I’ve made you some camomile to settle your tummy.” she eased down, holding out his Snoopy mug, the only one that wasn’t cracked after being trundled everywhere.

He groaned as he shifted to give her room on the couch, “Don’t think it’ll do it this time, it’s the smell, baby…” He took the mug anyway. 

She lay her head on his shoulder, looking down to her lap, her fidgeting fingers. “I know.” she whispered. He took a sip. 

He wrapped his arm around her shoulder, his thumb rubbing circles onto her arm. The action comforted him, just having her there, beside him, solid and living. “Listen, you know we need to get this wrapped within a week, right?”

“Yeah.” 

“What did you get her this year?” he murmured, into the blank expanse in front of them. The place was a dump. 

“I got her the latest Harry Potter.” she smirked, fingers drumming against her thigh, “Thought she’d like some culture from my side of the pond.” he snorted at that. “What about you?”

“Catcher in the Rye.” she smacked his shoulder. “What?” that coaxed a musical laugh out of her, the kind that he’d fallen head over heels for, “I’m kidding, I got her a toy wolf.”

“Like every year.” she said, wistfully. Well, as wistfully as a hardened hunter could. 

He nodded. “Like every year.”

“She’d moan at us you know.” she sighed with a shy grin. 

“Tell us we’re stuck in our ways.” he agreed, before a slight aching in his gut slithered in. He didn’t turn to her, simply stated his case to the void before them, the void that was another inconsequential hovel. “Do you think we shouldn’t this year? Maybe let it be. Let her go.” 

“No.” There was a gulf between them hidden in that one word.

“But baby- ” he tried, but she stood up, immediately drawn to her weapons, the way her hands went so easily around a scythe made his heart clench.

She brightened up, conversationally. “Have you got enough salt? We’re certainly going to need it up against those bastards, aren’t we?” 

And of course that was the end of the conversation. Closure is hard for anyone still carrying the torch of blame, and Tamara held it brighter and higher than anyone Isaac had ever seen. They went out to chase tendrils and rid the world of darkness that night, as they had done every night, as they should never have had to do.


	9. Two characters you'd wish had met: Tracy Bell and Tamara

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah so I gave Tamara a surname because it kinda bugs me that she never got one so- yeah

The shrieks were unbearably loud, piercing through Tracy’s eardrums like friggin’ needles. Goddamn banshees, man. She’d gone through the books, and honestly? She didn’t blame the girl - or, rather, former-girl - at all. Her family were abusive fucks from what she’d seen, how they practically covered up her death, minimised it into a meaningless thing; it was no real wonder she was terrorising them. But it wasn’t her job to distinguish the worthy from the unworthy, it was her job to kill whatever was offing the living before their time. And Clara had been pretty busy, screaming the house down when Gramps had croaked. Hunting banshees was a mess though, you had to find ‘em quick after the first death or else you’d have to wait before the next time. 

But oh Clara, bragging for a full week, was all too easy to find. Tracy’d salted and burned, quick as anything, and Clara’s last howls were portent of her own demise. Tracy clapped the wet soil off her hands and clambered out of the grave when she heard another scream. Jesus fuck, she was tired, she was aiming for going to sleep at some point today. Her head pounded and she tried to convince herself that it must just be an echo from Clara. Another scream rang out, insistent, and Tracy sighed, picking up her backpack and running towards wherever the noise was. 

She found a woman in the grips of a pretty powerful ghost (what is it with this town? she thought quickly) from what she could see. It was holding her up against the tree, her weapon dropped to the root of the tree. Tracy whipped out her iron crowbar and swung. It struck a little wide, but on point enough to dissipate the damn thing. The woman dropped to the floor, drawing as much breath as she can. Tracy yanked her up without another word, stance wide to anticipate the fucker. The woman’s beside her, her scythe almost magically in her grasp. 

“Where’s the body?” she rushed out, whipping her head from side to side, checking for Patrick Swayze tryna get the jump on them.

She rasped out, “That’s the thing, I’ve salted and burned, but he’s still there.”  _Hang on, what accent is that- WAIT._

“Woah you’re british?” she breathed, and wow Trace, super professional.

The woman’s head snapped ‘round and she looked, fairly justifiably, pissed. “Are you really focusing on that  _right now?_ ” 

“Shit, yeah, sorry, um, is there anything that could possibly be linked to him? Anything with his DNA on it?”

“Bollocks, you’re right. The daughter, she has a locket, there’s probably something there.”

“Well let’s get her then!” Tracy yelled, slightly desperate. 

“Couple of problems: one, she’s dead, two, she’s at the morgue.”

“Shit.”

“Indeed.”

“Right, ok, you get to the morgue, I’ll keep him distracted.” 

The lady clearly wasn’t down with this plan, “I- ”

“C’mon, lady, your ankle’s out for the count, you’ll drag me down, I’m sorry.” Tracy placated firmly, “It’s ok, I’ve got this.”

“What’s your name?” the woman asked, and lord, how was she still alive if she went around asking for names?

“What, you wanna become Facebook friends?” she laughed humourlessly, “Tracy, Tracy Bell.”

“Tamara Harris.” she said with a nod.

“Ok, Tamara Harris, you wanna go ‘head and save our asses or what?” 

Tamara ran off and just as she did, ghosty decided to make a guest appearance. She sliced right through him before he could so much as say ‘boo’. She whipped out her shot-gun, chock-full of salt rounds, and held it in her other hand. Man was being ambidextrous handy as hell. She smirked at her own joke, eyes roving in the dusty night. It occurred to her way too late, however, that a reason why the ghost wasn’t here anymore was because it had clocked that Tamara was going after the locket. Shit. Someone should really go into understanding the psychology of ghosts. If they live that long, anyway. 

She bolted in the direction of the morgue.

***

She got there and Tamara was standing in the middle of the morgue over a slew of upturned drawers and an open locket. She looked up to see Tracy at the door and Tracy was struck by how fucking tired she was. Not Tracy’s tired, bone-deep and almost whimsical in the way it made her want to just float away sometimes. It was a scarred exhaustion, as if  she’d once been strong but had so little to be strong for, she’d let herself be marred by anything, penetrable and an easy target. She looked like she just wanted to be done. It made Tracy want to hold her up and let her crumple like a tower of cards, let her fall, safely and not alone. 

“So, ya got it then?” she said instead. 

“Wasn’t too hard. Lock of hair, that’s it.” Tamara said, readying to walk straight past Tracy, before her arm struck out and stopped her. 

“Hey you wanna, um, go for some breakfast or something? I’m starvin’.” she said, casual as anything. 

“I’m quite tired, actually, but thank you.” 

“Oh well, how about we meet up tomorrow?” 

“That’s sweet of you, dear, but…” she started, but then a soft smile came out, still not reaching her eyes. “Well. I mean, alright. If you insist.”

“I do.” Tracy asserted, hands on hips, the whole shebang. 

“Alright, well I’ll see you in the morning. Good work.”

“Thanks, you too.” Tracy smiled, and Tamara kept looking at her, her eyes glazing over a little. “What?” she asked. 

“You… you look like someone I- ” she huffed, as if she annoyed herself with a habit she was attempting to break, “You remind me a little bit of my daughter. Or what I sometimes imagine she might’ve turned out like. Not in the hunter’s life. Just- alive.” and her face shut down, probably at the look on Tracy’s face. She couldn’t help that her emotions tended to be painfully clear in her expressions. 

“I’m sorry.” she said, gravely. 

“So am I.”

Tracy shuffled awkwardly, “You don’t have to come to breakfast tomorrow.”

“No, I, I’d like to.” Tamara assured her, but Tracy wouldn’t’ve been surprised if she was having breakfast alone the next morning. “This life is an interesting one, if anything.” she whispered to herself before brightening up. “8am? The stop just outside of town, from the west?”

“Sure.” Tracy nodded. 

“They make passable tea, and their pancakes are quite nice.” Tamara joked as she walked out, not turning back to see Tracy, but she smiled sadly nonetheless.

“Good to know.” she muttered into the empty corridor.


	10. My headcanon friendship: Charlie Bradbury and Bela Talbot

I can imagine Charlie and Bela meeting way before the Winchesters come into their lives. 

 

Bela’s doing some technical thievery, getting acquainted with her art now that the internet is clearly a viable new route to more money. She’s, what? Nineteen or so?

 

 

And Charlie, at this point Susan Asimov, still on the run, still invested in her dial-up altruism at sweet eighteen, when she stumbles upon a charity that ain’t so charitable to anything with more than two legs. So of course she gets around to exposing the buttholes ( _no one gets to treat animals like that, hell to the nah_ ) until she hits a wall. What.  _What the fuck._  


 

 

Bela’s busy drawing funds from a corrupt charity-fronted scheme when she notices that little red dot, an indicator that someone else is trying to access her funds. With a beep and a strange buzzing noise, the money is gone, and a message comes up.  _Don’t mess with the Queen_. A minor setback, naturally. She re-routes the signal and traces - with great difficulty - the IP address and sends a message of her own.

 

 

_Meet me at St. Aloysius’ tomorrow at 3pm, or I keep going._

 

 

With that, she hacks back and starts ripping into whoever this is. What is a Queen to an Empress?

 

 

Of course, Susan’s going apeshit. Someone’s accessing her files. Whoever it is, they clearly mean business, she hasn’t been hacked into since 2000. This is embarrassing, if anything. She sends an affirmative and closes her computer down. She breathes in and out, and spends the rest of the evening playing Solitaire to calm her nerves.

 

 

The next morning, she meets Bela Talbot, smart coat, beautifully coiffed hair, sipping on an espresso, black, no sugar. She looks up at Susan with those hazel-green eyes and Susan can’t help but be impressed. 

 

 

The orphans Asimov and Talbot talk for hours, coffee turns into breakfast, breakfast turns into lunch, and by mid-afternoon, Susan feels like she’s found an equal (if a slightly fancier and more British one) and Bela feels like she’s found an ally.

 

 

They stay friends for years, Charlie teaching her how to wire-transfer money without a trace, updating her on little things, and Bela teaches her some of her own tricks of the trade, how to dress to impress with the high and mighty elite (how to bed them, too). 

 

 

When Bela’s taken by hellhounds, she spends the ten minutes before she rings the Winchesters saying goodbye to her old friend, both of them weeping through the receiver. 


	11. Character that deserves… just something, anything, everything: Anna Milton (Anael)

I don’t accept it. I don’t accept that possibly the only angel other than Castiel who was truly trying to prevent the apocalypse the only way she knew how wouldn’t be resurrected in some way. I don’t accept that God would bring Castiel back after supporting two brothers and an old drunk who stood for family and free will, and wouldn’t bring back Anael, at least to a certain degree.

Yes, she may be scattered throughout the universe, her grace fractured among the stars. But she is so expansive. Every burst of beauty and horror she was capable of has atomised, spread long and galactic. She is embedded in every single thing she once loved. She is dandelion seeds travelling wind currents in the summer sun. She is the reverberation of a moan in your chest when you taste a sensuous piece of chocolate cake. She is the tears that fall when guilt clenches in your gut, and she is free from the war and cruelty of divine interference.

And maybe one day, when the world is more quiet, when the Winchesters and Castiel are long at peace, when the angels finally take time away from this insignificant blue planet, when there’s more robots and slightly more equality, Anael will be reborn, as a repayment for her dedication and loyalty and heartache and injustice in all her previous lives. For what use has God for the dissipation of a child that he must still love? His prodigal daughter?

She would be born once again, with wild red hair, her lungs powerful and broad. She would stay up and listen to her Gram-Gram  Claire tell her stories of her Great-Grandfather James, and the angel that stole him away. Gram-Gram would describe her hunt for her father, and how she met brave and wise and corrupt and strange people along the way, searching for the supernatural, protecting people. And the stories will rekindle the fire inside Anael that was never truly extinguished, even when she was obliterated what seems like thousands of years ago. She’ll grow up loved and disappointed and angry and happy and achingly sad, but she will feel  _everything_.

And the day that she finally dies, it will be her true time, and she will finally rest in the arms of her memories, her loved ones, everything she sacrificed her entire existence for. She will finally be free. 

 


End file.
